


When Somebody's Working You

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:22:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not the hooking that bothers Dean. No. It's that Sam gets stuck in his head while he’s fucking. While he’s being fucked. And that ain't right. A remix of "You Know The Rules."</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Somebody's Working You

Dean shoves the wad of bills deeper into his coat. Finds a seat in the first car, the one right behind the driver. Lets his head fall back.

He’s a little sore, but he expected that.

Dr. Perrin likes routine. Which makes Dean’s life a little easier.

He always knows what 11 PM on Tuesdays will bring: first a quick fuck on the couch, the leather one from Italy. Then a half hour with his dick down Perrin’s throat. Him naked, his back pressed to the front door, Perrin dressed again and panting, getting off on taking his time, on making Dean wait to come.

Which, whatever. Dean can play along.

Hell, he gets paid to.

Two women get on at Gallery Place. They’re clearly drunk as fuck.

And loud.

One of them is tall with long brown hair and dark eyes.

Dean turns his face to the wall. Pretends his first thought wasn’t _Sam_.

Something’s different now, between them.

Maybe it’s that sex is a tangible thing in their lives now, an everyday reality like ghosts and strega and demons once were.

It has to be, given what they do.

What Dean does.

So maybe that’s it. 

But when Dean’s half-buried in someone who isn’t Sam, in some body that doesn’t speak his language, he doesn’t really care what it is that’s changed. He just takes a deep breath, fills his head with _Sam_ and _Sam_ and _Sam_ , and comes like he’s supposed to. Like he’s getting paid to.

This? It’s just another job.

It’s only when he’s riding home on the subway—“the _Metro_ ,” the Sam in his head groans—that he starts to question it, starts to feel a little freaked, again, that what it take to get this job done isn’t salt or silver or fire.

It’s Sam.

And he feels bad about it. Really, he does. 

But not so bad that he’ll stop doing it. Not so bad that, tomorrow afternoon, when he’s with Mr. Wells over in Dupont, when he’s bent back over the kitchen table and counting the roosters in the wallpaper, when his mouth is saying _fuck_ and _yes_ and _harder, please, harder_ , he won’t close his eyes and summon his brother and then and only then will he come, will he shoot all over Mr. Wells’ Brooks Brothers tie that he never bothers to take off and finish the fucking job.

It’d be better if he could drive. But parking in DC’s a bitch.

He stumbles off the Metro at Waterfront. Makes the door to their apartment in ten minutes flat. To the shower in less than two.

The water’s nice and hot, and that’s one thing to be said for working weird hours, for taking a shower at 1 in the morning: no competition. 

He backs up into the spray and shuts down for a while.

It’s not the hooking that bothers him. No. He’s all for exploiting his natural talents, especially when it pays.

When they do.

It’s that Sam insists on being involved. On pretending he can protect Dean somehow by checking on the clients. By perverting his research powers to do background checks, to confirm employment and cruise bank records.

He even cases their houses before he’ll let Dean set foot inside. 

And if he’s still uncertain, he’ll hover just out of sight for the whole hour. Or two. Until Dean walks out all right.

Oh. Well. Maybe that’s what did it. What got Sam stuck in his head while he’s fucking. While he’s being fucked.

That knowledge that Sam could be nearby, that he might be right outside the window, might be watching Dean kick his hips into Ms. Buchanan, be seeing Dean’s spine curve and his mouth twist as he bends over her singing _come on, baby. come on_. until she snaps like a flag in the wind.

Yeah. That’s how Sam got into his head. The little fucker put himself there.

Still. ‘S not right. It’s not. To think about Sammy like that.

He curls out of the shower, his resolve at its finest, its most pure. Like it always is, right after. When he feels the most guilty.

He’s feeling so righteous that he almost misses Sam.

Sam, who’s leaning against the bathroom counter. Arms crossed. Frowning.

“Perrin called,” he says. 

Dean reaches for his robe. Winds his way in and ties a knot.

“There a problem?” 

Sam sighs.

“He had a question,” he says. Shifting. Only just. Only so much that Dean can’t get past him.

Great.

Dean jams his fists into terrycloth. Doesn’t keep the tired out of his voice. 

“A question?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “ _Who’s Sam?_ ”

And it’s the way he says it that sets the bells off inside Dean’s head.

“He, ah. What?”

“No. Not what. He wanted to know who Sam was,” Sam says, a little too quiet. “Because, apparently, you kept calling him that. While he was, you know. Paying to suck your cock.”

“Oh,” Dean says. Because what else can he say, exactly? “Oops?”

Sam just stares at him. Silent.

And it gets weird and uncomfortable real fast, really fucking quick, and Dean goes for the door, even though he knows it’s a lost cause. He’s not ready to face this, face Sam, inside his own head, and sure as hell not like this. In a tiny white space that’s full of steam, where there’s water dripping from the mirror and pooling at his feet and all he can feel is Sam.

“So,” Sam says, in a register that Dean’s never heard before. Someplace way down deep. “That happen a lot, Dean? You think about me when you’re working? When somebody’s working you?”

Dean watches his eyes crack in the mirror. Watches himself give up.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Yeah. Ok? I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I’m fucked up as hell and I—”

In the next breath, he’s on the counter, his ass slipping over the formica as Sam’s tongue is blitzkrieging his mouth. Then the fucker’s got his robe open and his hands on Dean’s skin and he’s groaning so pretty and dirty, wrapping Dean’s legs around his waist and getting them into a grind.

And maybe it’s the steam, or the heat, or the way Sam’s hair feels just like Dean thought it would, the way Sam arches when Dean gets a good handful and pulls the way he always does in Dean’s dreams, that makes it hard for Dean to realize where he is. That this is real. That Sam’s fist on his dick makes his whole body sing even better than it does in his head. 

He shoves his fingers into Sam’s zipper but Sam slaps him away. Huffs: “No, baby. No. Wanna suck you” into the curve of Dean’s throat and falls. Blinks up from his knees all wide and wet and groans: “Next time, gonna take my time, but now I gotta—” 

And he does what Dean gets paid to do, sucks Dean’s cock to the back of this throat in one long pull and maybe they’ve got this all wrong. Maybe Sam should be the one tricking because it takes teeth in Dean’s lip and blood on his tongue not to lose it just then, just as Sam gets a rhythm, sloppy and loud. Little bits of _Dean_ spilling out of his mouth on the upstroke, _fuck yes please_ falling out on the way down.

It was an abomination, saying Sam’s name before. With someone else’s mouth sliding over his dick, lapping at him through latex and looking up at him with the wrong eyes. Eyes free to look because they weren’t covered in strands of Sasquatch, in slick brown curls that Dean has to shove out of Sam’s face so he can see. So Sam can see him. 

So when Dean comes this time, his body tangled in terrycloth and his heart all over his face, he can only sigh:

“ _Sammy_.”

**Author's Note:**

> For the sweet anon on tumblr who asked for a remix of "You Know The Rules," this time with hooker!Dean and pimp!Sam.


End file.
